


Perfectly Explainable

by Sarah_M



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Humor, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 13:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_M/pseuds/Sarah_M
Summary: It’s a disaster zone. A wet mess of red wine, brandy, juice and fruit segments scattered across the Colonel’s kitchen floor. The wasted sangria and broken punch bowl aren’t the only casualties here; it’s likely her dress is a goner, and she’s pretty sure her pride is mixed up somewhere around her feet.





	Perfectly Explainable

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, long ago, some promises were made by a few well-intentioned writers about a particular fic challenge. Here's mine. x
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my magical-unicorn-wizard-friend Sharim28 for the beta. <3

It’s a disaster zone. A wet mess of red wine, brandy, juice and fruit segments scattered across the Colonel’s kitchen floor. The wasted sangria and broken punch bowl aren’t the only casualties here; it’s likely her dress is a goner, and she’s pretty sure her pride is mixed up somewhere around her feet. 

She definitely has some regrets about her choice of words to the Colonel before he left to pick up pizza; apparently she and the sangria  _ would not _ be fine on their own.

The clock on the kitchen wall ticks away as she tries to calculate just how long she has before he comes back, or Daniel and Teal’c arrive. The math is against her. There’s not nearly enough time to resolve this in any way shape or form.

At least this couldn’t get any worse, she sighs, and then assesses the damage to her once-white cotton dress that’s now plastered against her body.

Nope. Wrong again.

_ See-through  _ isn’t a color and  _ semi-nude  _ is not at all the look she was going for when she'd picked this from her closet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Suddenly the state of the kitchen isn’t her biggest problem, because the guys are going to get a lot more than an eyeful if she doesn’t think of something quickly.

“I can fix this,” she assures herself, wringing out some of the excess punch from hemline and dabbing herself down with the dish towel. It’s useless. What she needs to do is go home, shower and change, but she’s absolutely not stepping out the front door with so much on display.

“Right. New plan.”

Resigning herself to the healthy dose of mockery that her team will undoubtedly give her about the kitchen, she abandons any attempt at cleaning it, and makes her way down the hall towards the Colonel’s bedroom.

Her feet falter just short of her destination.

The door is closed, the international sign for ‘this space is off limits’, and  _ oh boy _ are there enough reasons it should remain off limits to her in particular. She’s thought a lot about this bedroom. More than she would ever be willing to admit to. Although, it’s less to do with the room itself and more about the person who sleeps in it.

“It’s not a big deal,” she mutters—hesitation is a luxury that she doesn’t have time for—and pushes the door open with more confidence than she actually feels. 

She’s immediately hit with the appealing scent of Jack O’Neill, the sight of an invitingly large bed (that’s not going to disappear from her memory any time soon), and  _ oh-thank-god  _ a basket of unfolded laundry sitting on top of the disheveled sheets.

It’s a small mercy that she doesn’t have to riffle through his dresser.

She plucks the first oversized shirt she finds from the pile—a long sleeved flannel—and promptly strips, toeing off her shoes and peeling the soaked, sticky dress down her body until she’s standing barefoot and half-naked in her CO’s bedroom.

This is honestly not at all how she pictured this scenario happening.

The well-worn shirt slips over her damp skin and she hastily fastens the buttons. She desperately tries to ignore the way the soft fabric feels skirting against her bare thighs, about the less than professional thoughts it evokes, and the involuntary flush of warmth it stirs inside her.

Thankfully there’s nowhere to catch a glimpse of her reflection in here, although she doesn’t really need a mirror to know exactly how she looks wearing this. It’s hardly appropriate, but at least it’s better than what she was wearing before. Probably.

Pants would be nice, she thinks, hurriedly rummaging through the options. Doesn’t the man own something with a drawstring? Her hands land on a pair of boxer shorts and she pulls them out, considering them a moment, then throws them back with a "Nope"; she draws the line at wearing his underwear. Nothing else in the basket seems like it would even remotely fit her. 

Her eye catches the red digits of his alarm clock; they seem to be glaring at her.

Screw it. This will have to do.

She gathers all the clothes back into a pile that’s close enough to the way she found it—sans one old shirt that he’ll hopefully never miss—then snatches up her dress and shoes from the floor, and makes for the front door. 

How she hasn’t left a trail of wet footprints that lead straight to the bedroom is absolutely beyond her, but she’s grateful for it.

The less he ever has to know the better.

She makes a swipe for her car keys on the entry table and curses when she almost drops them. All she has to do is make it back to her car before—

The sound of footsteps outside interrupts her frantic rush, and suddenly she’s looking at a stack of pizza boxes, held in the hands of a very surprised Jack O’Neill.

_ Crap. _

Her heavy sigh is the only sound between them while she waits impatiently for the ground to swallow her whole.

No such luck.

“I had a dream like this once…” he says smoothly.

Clearly he’s capable of recovering a lot faster than she is.

“There’s a perfectly good explanation for this,” she starts, giving him a tight, nervous smile.

“Is there though?” he drawls.

“Yes, sir?”

Why in the world would she let that come out of her mouth sounding like a question?

“Let me guess,” he grins boyishly, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. “I’m the pizza delivery guy, and these are for you, but  _ oh gosh _ you just can’t find your purse. Whatever shall you do?”

“Really?” she says dryly.

“Hey, I’m all for it Carter, but honestly, I just don’t think we have time.”

It’s obvious he’s not going to let this go without a sufficient amount of teasing, but at least that’s helping her feel less guilty about the state of his kitchen.

“I spilled a gallon of sangria on your kitchen floor and now I have to go home and change,” she gestures to the soggy dress in clutched her hand for good measure.

He gives her a considering look in return. “I like my thing better.” 

Despite her embarrassment, the smile tugging at his lips is hopelessly infectious, and the corners of her mouth quirk up to match his. A telling heat starts to burn at her cheeks too, and only then does he finally brush past her and into the house; as if he had every intention of seeing a blush of color on her face first. 

Damn him.

The smile on his face falls away when he steps into the kitchen and surveys the damage.

“All you needed to do was add the fruit...”

“I did that," she says beside him, sounding slightly more earnest then she’d like.

“And then?”

She winces. “Well, I thought it made more sense for the bowl to be on the other counter.”

“Ah,” he nods, setting the pizza boxes onto the counter top. “But we can both agree it makes  _ less sense  _ for it to be on the floor right?”

“I managed to catch a lot of it with my dress,” she tries to joke, huffing out a laugh. 

He raises his eyebrows at her incredulously. “I take it that’s the reason you stole my favorite flannel.”

“My dress went see-through.”

He just about flat out laughs at her. At least someone finds it funny.

“You came to the conclusion that  _ this  _ is somehow better?”

The way he’s looking at her right now makes it very clear that it’s not. She tries hard to suppress the smile that’s threatening to make an appearance, but she fails miserably.

“And of course,” he moves closer, “I’m sure you had every intention of owning up to your theft and giving this back to me.” His voice is warm and oh-so-skeptical as he indicates to the shirt she’s currently wrapped in.

“Yes.”

No.

"Hmm.”

His eyes stay fixed on hers and she can tell—she knows—he’s thinking all the same tempting thoughts that crossed her mind the moment she slipped into his shirt. It charges the air with a frisson of tension; the kind they’re supposed to avoid. And suddenly she feels significantly warmer than her attire should really allow for. She blows out a long, calming breath from between her parted lips—an action he seems pretty pleased with.

“I’m going to go home now,” she says slowly, pointing her keys in the direction of her car. Her feet don’t seem to be getting the memo. Stupid feet. “I’ll come back with beer.” 

“And my shirt.”

“And your shirt,” she echoes with a smile that’s giving her away; she’s not bringing his shirt back and they both know it.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he murmurs.

His gaze flicks down to her mouth, lingering there long enough that she can’t help but do the same to his, and the distance between them closes a little more—although she isn’t entirely sure which one of them is to blame. A pleasant flutter of anticipation starts low her stomach and her tongue sneaks out to wet her lips.

“Umm…” Daniel’s voice startles them both. “Do you want us to come back later?”

_ Crap. _

She promptly takes a step back, turning her attention towards Daniel and Teal’c, who appear to be less surprised than they maybe should be.

The Colonel coughs lightly, clearing his throat and staring at them for a few drawn-out seconds before he speaks.

“I’ll have you know... there’s a perfectly good explanation for this.”


End file.
